Page 110 of For a Price

“Katerina!”

I couldn’t give less of a shit who hears me shout her name. My focus zeros in on her and nothing else.

I’m no longer a brigadier in the bratva. I’m a crazed man racing toward the woman who has come to mean more than I ever anticipated.

When I’m coming through, it’s best to get the fuck out of my way. If not, expect to be mowed down.

Several in the theater learn the hard way as I charge forward. A male server in a loincloth gets knocked to the ground after failing to move in time. Another scantily clad woman in a sparkling bra and panty combo shrieks as she stumbles back on platform heels.

Some of the guests in the theater room suffer the same fate. As I bulldoze through the crowded space, I flip tables and shove aside chairs that stand in the way. Drinks spill everywhere. Bottles shatter.

The once sociable air in the room morphs into shock and dismay.

But I don’t give a fuck. These people have my kitty cat, which means every last one of them can be on the receiving end of my wrath.

Katerina’s looking at me—and so has everyone else in the room—and the way she stares shows she’s questioning her sanity. If she truly sees me or if she’s hallucinating.

I’m mere footsteps away when some ugly motherfucker steps in my path and holds out his hand like he expects to stop me. He’s middle aged with a wiry mustache and the yellowed eyes of an alcoholic, but he seems to believe he has authority.

“Stop!” he yells at me in a Russian accent. “What do you think you’re?—”

My fist slams into his jaw in a brutal uppercut. He drops to the ground like a stiff wooden board, knocked out cold.

“Borys!” another woman shrieks, then she scurries away once she realizes she’s next in my path.

With no one else between us, Katerina runs to my side. “Roman!”

I pull her against me and then cast a murderous look around the room, daring anybody to object. The front doors have flown open and a group of armed security from the Midnight Society have flooded inside.

I draw my own weapon. The handful of men I’ve brought with me follow my lead. They’ve risen from the table I’d been seated at with the pakhan, ready for a fight if necessary.

For his part, the pakhan has remained nonplussed. He’s at the table with a vague expression on his face, his gaze set on me.

The pakhan is not unlike my father in his demeanor. He’s a stoic and calculated man who isn’t the type to approve of theatrics.

Causing an impromptu firefight with the Midnight Society’s security would fall under that category.

But that’s where I differ from my father and the pakhan—I’m a hotheaded, impulsive man.

My moniker is Zver for a reason.

I’m not only the size of a beast. My rage is as destructive as one.

I kick things off, pulling the trigger first. I open fire on the group of security guards and take two of them out right away.

All hell breaks loose.

The security scramble to return fire. My men jump into the mix, providing cover for me.

Bullets fly everywhere, traveling faster than the speed of sound. Each one is invisible to the human eye until it pierces something.

People drop like flies. Shards of glass whiz in all directions. Smoke fills the room.

Everyone is either retreating from the gunfire in some way or fighting against it.

The guests in the theater are diving under tables and cowering for their lives. Me and my crew are battling it out with the Midnight Society security.

And then there’s the pakhan.

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